


Cleopatra's Needle

by Dame_Syrup (mary_pseud)



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: 69, Anonymous Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Candid Camera, F/M, Glory Hole, Kinkmeme, M/M, Non-consent, Oral Sex, Strap-Ons, Voyeurism, alien feasts, alien morals, sex under the influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 23:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17928728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_pseud/pseuds/Dame_Syrup
Summary: For the kinkmeme prompt: Martha gives Ten a blow-job through a gloryhole either without her knowing it is Ten (but him knowing it is Martha) OR they both don't know they are with one another.Warning for consent issues: both characters are drugged and don't entirely know what/who they are doing.





	Cleopatra's Needle

"I cannot believe we are doing this," Martha hissed; trying to take a sip from the exotically curved wineglass without it dribbling all over the front of her leather jacket. Around them, the aliens sat and laughed, long clawed hands clutching utensils. Great platters of food moved up and down the cloth-covered table, carried on the backs of animals that were not quite tortoises, and not quite beetles either.

"I'm not doing anything unusual," the Doctor retorted; he picked up his wineglass and spun the contents, waiting for the centrifugal effect to take hold, and then slid the contents into his mouth with practiced ease.

"That's because you're male. I'm the one who had to – dress up."

Martha shifted in her chair, keenly aware of the straps that crossed her waist and thighs, holding the artificial phallus against her, jutting up from her pubic bone like an impudent finger. Well, to be honest it wasn't all that long, but having it strapped to her was hideously embarrassing. She felt like it was Cleopatra's Needle, rising up for all to see.

"It's the local custom. It's not too bad," the Doctor said, his face flushing under his tousled dark hair from the effects of the wine. "In ancient Egypt you've have had to wear a beard. And given a choice between a full hoop skirt and a phallus, I'm sure the phallus is a lot easier to steer."

Martha had finally given up, and emptied her glass into a smaller oval bowl at her elbow. Ignoring the glare from her neighbour, whose eyes were turning pink at the sight, she sipped the wine. It was very nice, she had to admit. Warm and fruity-smelling, with a hint of spice. The spice made her lips itch a little, and she hoped that the Doctor was right that they weren't allergic to any of the food. She would have preferred to be able to test it herself, and in a more controlled fashion than just eating.

They kept eating, though, and drinking. Little crystal spheres of jelly, carefully arranged thatches of soft purple quills – leaves? – that hid a rich creamy oval that smelled like fish, cooked roots with neat grid-like char marks on them. And more wine, and more wine.

The Doctor's colour was getting quite high, Martha thought. She licked her lips involuntarily, not wanting to scratch them against her sleeve, and wondered if his face would feel hot if she kissed him right now. Just a thought.

But suddenly everything seemed to be floating away from her: the Doctor, the table, the feasters who all rose and waved their glasses at her. The air was thick velvet in her mouth, her arms were rubber, and then it all streamed away like smoke.

 

* * *

 

The aliens were most considerate of their drugged guests; after all, what happened next was quite traditional. So they arranged the pillows and the headrests and the cameras, carefully made sure that the concentration of aphrodisiac in their blood was not too high or too low, and then retired behind their screens to watch the show.

 

* * *

 

Martha woke up to a strange feeling at her crotch. Sort of a blunt nuzzling. She felt safe and warm and relaxed, and the first thing she imagined was Tom: the time he'd greeted her stark-naked and erect when she got home, prodding at her clothed body with his penis like it was an eager pet seeking attention. But this wasn't quite the same.

She opened her eyes; she seemed to be lying in a long trough of pillows, green and red and violet velvet that propped her half on one side. She looked down, and her mouth fell open in a little circle.

There was something on her phallus. She couldn't tell what; she could only see the base of the phallus itself. The rest of it was poking through a donut-shaped pillow, and the quick flash of – a chin? A hand? No, the noise was familiar; she'd heard those noises, made them herself for that matter. The slick sounds of lips and tongue on taut skin: someone was sucking off the phallus. Someone was, in fact, sucking her off. And it felt great. The sensations of pressure through her clothes were muted, but her imagination flared with excitement: the thought of someone sucking her this way, feeling her when she shoved her hips forward (she shoved, and felt herself get wetter). She reached down with one hand and grasped the base of the phallus, and ground it hard against her body, against her wet clit, and shivered at the moan that came from her own mouth.

Then there was something in front of her. She uncrossed her eyes and looked: it looked like a penis, poking out of another O-shaped pillow. It bumped her cheek, urgently, and it was cold. It couldn't be real; it was too cold. It must be another phallus. She wondered who was on the other end of it, and then the itching in her mouth and the equivalent of a scratching post in front of her drew the right connection in her mind, and she leaned forward and began to suck.

 

* * *

 

The Doctor had woken up with a cock in his face. He'd stared at it bleary-eyed, and then something had impelled him to take a lick at it. Tasting it, and that taste had drawn him in like ginger ice cream or hot electricity, and before he knew it he had the cock deep in his mouth, sucking with long strokes. He wasn't quite certain where his hands were right now, or he would have tried to feel around and find out who the cock's owner was, but the sensation of cool stiffness between his lips was, well, it was a taste of home. Almost literally.

The cock thrust forward a little, and he sucked harder. Then he felt a new coolness on his body, and sudden hot wetness. It was as though a hot mouth had found his own cock (and who had let it out of his trousers? Silly thing to do, leaving a cock out like that, it might wander off and get into every sort of mischief) and that hot mouth was sucking him.

It was a shocking contrast, heat at his own loins and coldness in his throat, sucking hard and hearing little smacking noises as his lips stretched around the shaft, feeling a tongue tease at his tip, flicker against his foreskin and then stroke long and hard at him. It was like drowning, and he needed to suck in order to breathe; it was like flying or running or diving into icy water and surfacing into sun-warmed shallows, and he sucked and spurted and the world went away again.

 

* * *

 

The Doctor and Martha, limp from their orgasms and unconscious from the drugs, were ceremoniously raised on their velvet couches and paraded back to their ship. Clothing was carefully refastened, antidotes were tenderly decanted into the air, and the aliens withdrew to tidy up and start editing their footage.

When the travellers woke up, neither of them quite remembered what had happened. The last thing they remembered was the banquet, and eating something that hadn't quite agreed with them – or that had perhaps agreed a bit too well. Anyway, there was no sign of their hosts, and the feast was apparently over. So they left.

It was not until the Doctor discovered a royalty cheque waiting for him at the next planet they visited, and Martha was asked for her autograph because she was a 'movie star', that exactly what they had both swallowed as a part of that feast was revealed.


End file.
